Solidarity
by ProbableImpossibilities
Summary: A reporter enters the Penguin Steel Factory in pursuit of a scoop. What she finds is an adorable young worker, a pyromaniac stove tender, a scientist, and a paranoid supervisor. As she spends time with them and learns their stories, tensions in the factory rise... and the journalist becomes inextricably involved in her own story. Humanization, AU.
1. Chapter 1

It was September 20th, 1919, and a storm was brewing in New York City. The air was heavy and humid, and the skies were grey and overcast as Marlene hurried through the streets towards the Penguin Steel Company. She could see the towering smokestacks over the square tops of the buildings around her; another factory in a city filled to bursting with them. But this one was special, because those grimy metal walls held a story, one that, according to her source, was going to be huge. Marlene smiled to herself as she walked, tucking a stray strand of light brown hair behind her ear. They'd _have_ to respect her at the newspaper once this piece hit the presses. They'd all have to acknowledge her as the real reporter she was, instead of just some glorified secretary.

The factory loomed above her, hulking and angular. She encountered a few workers passing in and out through the front doors; for the most part, they ignored her, though there was one who couldn't have been older than eighteen who stopped and gave her a cheery wave before continuing on his way. Even though it was the middle of September and rather chilly, the men were all covered in a thin film of sweat. It glistened on their foreheads and bare arms, smearing black grease across their faces when they moved to wipe it off. Marlene reminded herself not to shake the hand of anyone just off his shift.

Taking a moment to steel herself, she pushed open the doors and stepped into the factory. A long, high-ceilinged hallway stretched before her, lined with heavy metal doors where workers filed in and out, like so many bees in a hive. They were all staring at her now, but none of them stopped their motion or even slowed down. The air inside the factory was hot and thick, oppressive to the point where it was almost suffocating. She could taste the sharp tang of metal, and the hall reverberated with loud clanking and rumbling, the sound of machines.

The hallway ended in what looked like some sort of office, a block of rough white plaster sporting a single sheet-metal door and a squat rectangular window with drawn blinds. Unlike the rest of the factory, it was pristine, and reeked of management. She'd have to start there.

Marlene made her way down the hall until she stood before the office door, hand poised to knock. There was a brass nameplate at eye level that read "Steven McGrath" in painted letters. This was probably the factory supervisor's office. She drew her hand back, then swung it forward.

Suddenly, the door flung open on silent hinges, and a man's face appeared right where the nameplate had been. Marlene yelped in sheer fright, hastily drawing back her hand, which was now on a collision course for the man's nose.

The man appeared completely unfazed, peeking out from behind the door and sizing her up with a suspicious gaze. "State your name and business," he barked, his voice low and raspy and as cool as his frosty blue eyes.

Marlene couldn't do anything but stand there, knuckles still in the air. Finally, she managed to sputter, "M- M- Marlene Ottinger... I'm a reporter with the Herald."

The man's eyes narrowed. "Likely story. How do I know you're not a corporate spy?"

"Uh..." Marlene had not been expecting any of this, but luckily, she _had_ brought her newspaper ID with her. She pulled it out of her briefcase and showed it to him. "Here's my identification."

The man inspected her ID with a critical gaze, probably scrutinizing every inch of it. Now that she had time to get a good look at him, he was actually rather short, though well-built, with broad shoulders and tough hands. He had slick jet-black hair, and was dressed in a crisp white button-down shirt that looked freshly pressed, though she detected small patches of sweat at the armpits; apparently, even this starched-and-ironed man was not immune to the heat. Eventually, he glanced up from her ID, eyes narrowed, then barked out, "Iron ore smelted with coke and limestone makes what?!"

"Cola?!" Marlene squeaked, jumping back a step.

His face was now only inches away from hers. "And what's a Chandler and Price jobber?"

"Ooh! That's a letterpress for small prints, less than a page!" Marlene exclaimed, without really knowing what she was saying. "We have a bunch of Chandlers at the Herald." She tilted her head. "...Wait, why did you ask me that?"

The man held her gaze for a moment longer, then pulled back and gave her a smooth grin. "Well, nice to meet you, Marlene. I had to make sure you were the real thing." He held out a hand. "Call me Skipper. I'm the supervisor here."

Marlene shook his hand, slightly unnerved, but relieved that she'd passed whatever paranoid test that had been. "Nice to meet you."

Skipper held open the door and motioned her inside his office. It was small and spartan, with nothing but a desk and two uncomfortable-looking chairs. Skipper seated himself in one of them, folding his arms. "Now, if I may ask, what's a pretty young thing like yourself doing at the Penguin steel works?"

Marlene sat down in the chair next to him, folding her hands in her lap. "Well, as I said, I'm a reporter with the Herald," she began. "My editor wanted to do a piece on local industry, so I'm out getting information on factories. This place seemed just as interesting as any." That wasn't entirely true, and she was beginning to fear he wouldn't buy it.

Skipper raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't told you'd be coming."

Marlene flinched. "There must have been some sort of mix-up..."

Skipper looked doubtful, but he shrugged. "Well, I'm sure the bosses won't mind some free publicity. But if you start asking the wrong types of questions, I won't waste any time giving you the bum's rush, if you catch my drift." He spread his hands. "So what do you want to know?"

Marlene smiled in relief, pulling a pencil and notepad out of her briefcase. _So far, so good._ "Actually, I was thinking I'd start with you, if that's okay."

Skipper frowned slightly, but after a few moments, he shrugged. "Okay, shoot."

"Thanks." Marlene readied her pencil. It was obvious that the supervisor wasn't one to talk easily, but she was fairly good at getting people to open up to her. She just had to find the right topic. "So, 'Skipper'... are you a sailor?"

Skipper's face lit up like a Christmas tree. "United States Navy," he said with obvious pride. "I was first lieutenant aboard the USS Pike, the best submarine in the whole fleet. She left the old Kaiser with more sour Krauts than my great-aunt Ruth makes at New Year's."

Marlene's eyes widened. "You fought in the war?"

"Affirmative. Matter of fact, I joined the Navy when I was eighteen, back in '09." Skipper smirked. "The men here call me 'Skipper' because I run this place the same way old Captain Rockgut ran the Pike." He gestured around him, presumably to the factory at large. "She's a tight ship. Every man knows his duties, and does 'em. It's as simple as that." His expression soured. "No fancy stuff."

Marlene raised an eyebrow. "Sounds like you don't like… fancy stuff?"

Skipper grunted, shaking his head. "I keep telling the bosses that we don't need that egghead around here, but I have to admit, productivity has increased since he started tinkering around. Doesn't mean I have to like it, though."

Marlene leaned forward, scribbling furiously. "Egghead?"

Skipper blinked. "Sorry. I guess my thoughts ran away with me there." He checked his watch. "But don't worry, Egghead himself will be here in less than thirty seconds. The guy is clockwork."

As he finished speaking, the door swung open, and a tall, lanky man dressed in a white lab coat burst into the office. "Skipper! I've found a solution to your problems with furnace two! Recalibrating the pressure dials led me to discover a minor mechanical malfunction in the..." He trailed off as he noticed Marlene, seemingly bewildered by her presence. His slick black hair was tousled in places, and black grease stains covered his coat and streaked his cheeks. "Who is she?"

Skipper stood from his chair and placed his hands on his hips. "Well, well... you're twenty-two seconds early, Kowalski." He gestured towards Marlene. "This is Marlene; she's a reporter writing a piece on the factory." He turned to Marlene and indicated the tall man. "This is Kowalski, the egghead I mentioned earlier. The bosses sent him to improve efficiency."

"It's Dr. Kowalski, and you know I resent that nickname," Kowalski sniffed, holding out his hand to Marlene. "How do you do."

Marlene stood and shook his hand with a smile. "Well, thanks. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions about your work here?"

Kowalski looked tickled pink; Marlene guessed that not many people had ever asked him that. "Why, certainly!" He held a hand over his chest. "I specialize in scientific management, though my doctorate is in mechanical engineering. I study the workers' aptitudes and habits and determine how to maximize productivity at minimal cost."

"Basically, if he sees Joey doing a job in six seconds while Ted's doing it in four, he's gonna whine to me until _everybody's_ doing it in four... or three and a half if he can swing it," Skipper grumbled, arms folded. "And the 'mechanical engineering' part gives him an excuse to mess with my machines."

"I'm not messing with them, I'm improving them," Kowalski protested.

Skipper was not impressed. "Uh huh. And almost blowing up the whole damn factory last week was an improvement, right?"

For the first time, Kowalski looked sheepish. "...I forgot to carry the two..."

Marlene scribbled furiously. While this was certainly interesting, it was about time she started finding out what she really came here for. "Dr. Kowalski, it's great that you're improving efficiency, but I can't imagine that the workers would take kindly to that."

Kowalski blinked. "Oh... well, it's true that most of them don't like me, but I'd never thought of it that way before." He looked thoughtful. "Now that you mention it, there have been a few spots of trouble lately..."

Skipper seemed to sense the direction Marlene was heading in, and he gave her a warning look. "Why don't we go on a tour of the factory?" he suggested, though it sounded more like a command. "Kowalski can show you how things work here while I make my rounds."

Marlene hid her disappointment at her questioning having been cut off behind a warm smile. She'd have to be very careful not to set off Skipper's paranoia. "That would be great, thank you."

* * *

The tour lasted for the next half hour. Skipper led the two of them through the factory, issuing orders to the workers and resolving issues as he went, while Kowalski explained every aspect of the production process in more detail than Marlene could ever possibly need or want. In truth, she wasn't there to learn how to smelt pig iron, so she spent most of the tour observing Skipper's interactions with the workers. It was obvious now that he was born to command; he had a natural charisma that seemed to inspire respect everywhere he went. Though a few of the workers did grumble when he turned his back, as soon as his gaze was back on them, they were the paragon of order and efficiency.

Not so with Kowalski. The scientist was given dirty looks at best, mumbled death threats at worst. Marlene even spotted a worker attempting to spit on him as he passed, though thankfully, the man didn't have very good aim. Kowalski, for his part, was completely oblivious, chattering away about machines and science and scribbling on a clipboard. It was no wonder Skipper had taken to calling him an egghead.

By the time they'd covered the whole factory floor, Marlene was sweating like a pig and breathing heavily. It was hot as hell, and the tour had really tired her out. "Hey… Skipper…" she panted, leaning over and supporting herself by placing her hands on her knees. "Could we maybe… go outside… and get some fresh air?"

Skipper looked amused. "What's wrong, soldier? All tuckered out after a little walk?"

Marlene summoned up enough energy to frown at him, rapidly straightening and smoothing her blazer. "I'm not a soldier. And I just wasn't prepared for this heat, that's all."

"Hmm…" Kowalski stroked his chin. "It is true that achieving a semblance of comfort within the superheated atmosphere inside the factory requires prolonged exposure over a number of weeks… perhaps it would be in Miss Ottinger's best interests to step outside for a bit."

Skipper glanced at his watch. "Well, alright, but I can't go with you. I'm on the clock, you know."

"That's fine," Marlene answered, wiping her forehead. "Actually, I was hoping to interview some of the workers, as well."

Skipper became immediately suspicious. "Why? The boys can't tell you anything about the factory beyond what Kowalski and I have already covered." His eyes narrowed. "Maybe you're a Red, here to incite a riot!"

Marlene fought the urge to roll her eyes. This whole 'completely paranoid' thing was getting a little old. "I'm not a Red," she said firmly. "I like capitalism as much as the next guy. I just want to make sure I get both sides of the story, that's all." She shrugged. "I might not even use any of it, but my editor likes to see reporters focus on 'the human element' of a story like this one."

Kowalski stared at her as if she had three heads. "But isn't such information unnecessary to the facts? Who cares about the people involved in any given incident?"

Skipper didn't look like he was buying it, either, and that made Marlene feel almost sad in an irked way. "Believe it or not, _people_ usually care about other _people_. It's not a difficult concept."

Skipper waved it off. "Fine, whatever; we're wasting time here." He started to head back towards the front of the factory. "Interview whoever you want, but I want Kowalski with you at all times, to make sure there's no funny business."

Marlene watched him as he walked away, and was suddenly struck by something that she hadn't noticed before; she'd been paying attention to the supervisor's words and actions, but now that she was simply watching him move, it was actually fairly noticeable. However, by the time she thought to ask about it, he was already gone. She turned to Kowalski. "Skipper walks with a limp... was he injured?"

Kowalski glanced side to side, as if unsure if he should be divulging such information. "Well, I don't know much about it, but I heard that he was hurt badly during the war and had to be discharged."

"Discharged... you mean, they sent him home?" Marlene felt a twinge of sympathy for Skipper; he was a proud soldier, a born commander. To have that taken away from him because of an injury must have been torture. Not to mention having to watch the war end without him... She shook her head. She was here to get a scoop, not the supervisor's sob story. She needed to focus. "Ah, so, are any workers on break right now?"

Kowalski thought about it. "It would have been better to ask Skipper that... but I do know that the men like to go out into the yard during their ten-minute breaks. Perhaps we'll find some outside."

The scientist led her to the floor exit and pushed open the doors, stepping outside. The cool, fresh, pre-storm air, laden with the smell of rain, felt so good that Marlene almost cried. But she held it back, looking around and trying to get her bearings. This was the opposite side of the factory from where she'd entered; there was a long strip of open ground, packed dirt with patches of grass, surrounded by a tall chain-link fence. Workers milled about in groups, some sitting on the ground or against the wall. Kowalski scanned the tired faces, smiling as his gaze landed on two men seated at the end of the strip, playing cards. "I know those two; they might be willing to answer your questions."

Marlene let him lead her to the corner where the fence met the factory wall; she couldn't help but notice the dirty looks that the scientist continued to garner. Without the protection of Skipper, she was surprised he hadn't been ripped to shreds.

The two workers Kowalski had pointed out glanced up at their approach. They were a strange pair - the one on the left was tall and heavy-set, very muscular, and had a scarred face, tousled black hair, and wild eyes, while the one on the right was small and young, with an innocent expression and an air of sweetness. Marlene recognized the younger man - more like a boy - as the one who'd waved to her when she'd first arrived. They both had cards in their hands and one card stuck to their foreheads, with a deck and a discard pile in the middle; it looked like a few pieces of penny candy were riding on the game. The young worker glanced back and forth between Marlene and Kowalski, a warm smile on his face. "'Ello, K'walski..." He dipped his head to Marlene. "...Miss." He had a very strong British accent, which was strange, but certainly not unpleasant. "We're playing stomp the wombat; want to join us?"

Marlene had never heard of such a game, and was actually somewhat curious as to how it was played, but Kowalski shook his head. "Perhaps some other time." He indicated her. "This is Ms. Marlene Ottinger, from the New York Herald. She's writing a story on the factory."

The young man looked delighted. "Ooh, are we going to be in the paper?"

Marlene smiled; she couldn't help it. His enthusiasm was infectious. "Yep. If you don't mind, I'd like to interview you two."

"Really? Wow, that would be smashing!" The young man jumped to his feet and shook her hand. "My name's Sam, but everybody here calls me Private." He motioned to the big man next to him, who seemed even bigger now that he was standing, though he was actually shorter than Kowalski. "And this is Rico. He doesn't talk much, but he's a great guy."

Rico smiled at her, stretching the jagged scar that cut across his mouth. "Hiyah." His voice was rough and muddled, sounding more like a squawk than words. Marlene could already tell that trying to get anything out of him was going to be a challenge.

She smiled anyway. "Nice to meet you." She pulled out her pencil and notepad. "So, what are your jobs in the factory?"

"I'm a topman," Private said with a smile. "I clean the tops of the blast furnaces. Rico's a stove tender; he operates the stoves that fuel furnaces two and four."

Rico nodded happily, his tongue lolling around his mouth. "Stoke fires," he grunted, glancing eagerly at Kowalski. "'Walski..." He then descended into a string of gibberish, culminating in an excited "kaboom!"

Marlene sent Kowalski an enquiring look, and he twiddled his fingers sheepishly. "Skipper already mentioned this, but last week, I was attempting to solve a minor issue with furnace four. Something went wrong, and..."

"Kaboom!" Rico repeated, clapping his hands together with a delighted smile on his face.

Kowalski winced. "...but it wasn't that serious..."

"Rico really likes explosions," Private butted in, seeming not at all bothered by that fact. "That's why he works the stoves - the fire keeps him entertained."

Marlene had to try really hard not to drop her notepad and run. Despite Private's assurances that Rico was a 'great guy,' he was also a pyromaniac capable of snapping her in half. She decided to change the subject. "So, Private, where did you get that nickname? You look a little too young to have been in the war."

Private pouted. "No... I was sixteen when the U.S. joined, and I wanted to try passing for eighteen, but my Uncle Nigel wouldn't let me. I understand, though... we left Faversham because he thought it would be too dangerous to stay in England." His smile returned. "I started working here around the same time as Skippah. He gave me the nickname, and now everybody calls me Private."

"Skipper, eh?" Marlene tapped her pencil against the notepad absentmindedly. It seemed like everything here revolved around Skipper. "Is he a good boss?"

Private grinned. "The best. He's tough, but he really cares about all of us workers, more than anyone else would."

Rico nodded vehemently. "Skippuh good. Skippuh..." He made a few unintelligible noises, gesturing at himself. Finally, he managed to get out, "...s- say-ved Rico."

Marlene blinked. "Skipper... saved you?"

Rico nodded. "Yeh, yeh." He then launched into another string of gibberish, though it was clear that he was very earnestly trying to tell her something this time.

Marlene glanced at Private. "Do you know what he's talking about...?"

Private turned to Rico. "Is it okay if I tell her?" When Rico nodded, he turned back to Marlene. "The truth is that the reason Rico's like this is because he spent almost a whole year on the western front. Y'know, in the trenches."

Marlene froze. She'd heard all the horror stories of the trenches in Europe, more than what the public knew; there were tales too terrible for the paper to publish. One of the things that had always stood out to her was the average lifespan of a second lieutenant on the front: eight seconds. That was why she'd never actually met anyone who'd been there.

"His unit kept losing men until Rico, the lieutenant, and two others were the only original members left," Private continued, constantly glancing at Rico. The older man seemed okay, nodding along almost casually. Private fidgeted. "Then, one night at Meuse-Argonne, they came under heavy shelling. Rico was the only one who survived. They had to send him to a field hospital because he was full of shrapnel; he came home a few weeks before the war ended."

Rico made some noises that sounded vaguely like unflattering descriptions of hospitals, then gave a short, good-humored cackle. Marlene was surprised at how emotionally detached the man was from his own story. Then again, perhaps he had to be.

Private giggled a little; apparently, he was able to come as close to understanding Rico as anyone could. "Anyway, Rico can say a few words now, but when he first came home, he couldn't speak at all - probably 'cause he breathed in all sorts of nasty gas over there. He didn't have any family to take care of him, and no one would hire him on account of his... issues."

"'Cept Skippuh," Rico interrupted, a grateful note in his rough, strained voice. "Skippuh fought, too. Undahstands."

Marlene thought back on all the strange things Skipper had said and done since she'd met him; his paranoia, the way he sometimes treated her like an enemy. If Skipper understood Rico, he probably had some 'issues' of his own. She'd interviewed a soldier once who'd told her that there were some things that, no matter how hard you tried, you just couldn't put into words. But when you'd seen war and you met someone else who'd seen it, too, you didn't need to explain. It was a secret understanding that only soldiers shared, and thinking of Skipper, Marlene felt all too aware that she was on the outside, trying to get a glimpse of something she had no right to see. She felt bad for having judged the supervisor somewhat harshly in her thoughts, though she knew that she would have to continue pursuing her scoop whether he liked it or not. She flipped to a new page in her notepad. "That's a very heavy story, thank you for sharing it with me," she said carefully. "Skipper sounds like a really great guy. Do the other workers like him as much as you do?"

Private shot a discreet glance at Kowalski, biting his lip. Rico let out a low, rumbling growl, then grunted something that Marlene's editor would _never_ print in the paper.

"Everyone here respects Skippah," Private began cautiously, "but to a lot of people, he represents the bosses. They don't understand that he's just doing his job like the rest of us. Mason and Phil - they're the union leaders - they blame him for the wage cuts. Now we're all making ninety-four cents a day instead of a dollar; it was hard for some guys and their families to get by on that before, but now it's nigh on impossible."

Kowalski looked uncomfortable. "...I don't think Skipper would approve of-"

Marlene waved it off; she had a feeling that Kowalski wasn't nearly as comfortable with responsibility as Skipper was, which would make him easy to manipulate. And while she didn't usually approve of manipulation, this story could be her big break. She'd have to compromise her values just this once. "Skipper told you not to let me start any 'funny business,' which I haven't done and don't intend on doing." She gave him a pout. "You're a smart man. I work for the New York Herald, not the corner Socialist pamphlet press."

Kowalski hesitated; a costly mistake. "Well, ah... that is to say..."

"I'm glad you understand." Marlene turned back to Private. "Tell me more about Mason and Phil..."

"Rico! Private!" Skipper sauntered towards them, the limp giving him a little hop in his step, his shirtsleeves rolled up. "Break time's over, boys," he called out, throwing a thumb over his shoulder towards the factory. "Get back on in there."

Private shot Marlene a brief apologetic look before jogging off towards the factory, Rico on his heels. Marlene frowned. She'd been so close!

Skipper seemed to know what he'd done; he planted his hands on his hips and gave her his signature smooth grin, this time with an infuriating smugness. "How's the interviewing coming, Marlene? Learn anything interesting?"

Marlene, seething inside, tried to cover it by glancing at her watch, and realized that it was actually quite late. She looked to Skipper. "When does the factory close?"

"In about two hours," Skipper responded, still looking cheeky and almost victorious.

Kowalski scribbled on his clipboard. "Actually, closing time is in precisely one hour, fifty-four minutes and twenty seconds."

Marlene rolled her eyes, only to freeze when she noticed that Skipper had done so, too. Their gaze locked for a moment or two, then Marlene coughed and turned away. "Well, I suppose I'd best be going, then. But I'll need to come back tomorrow to gather more information, if that's alright."

Skipper's eyes said to bring it on. "Fine by me. Any time from six a.m. to close should be alright."

"Then I'll see you at ten," Marlene told him, mirroring the expression. She would get her story if it was the last thing she ever did.

* * *

 **Author's Note: Hello, all! This is my first PoM story, and it was originally supposed to be a oneshot, but ha ha ha that didn't happen. This whole AU is actually based around that one scene from Madagascar 2 where Skipper is negotiating with the chimp union about rebuilding the plane... yes, that two-second scene.**

 **Fun fact: 1919 was considered to be the unofficial worst year in U.S. history, due to riots, violence, and the corruption of baseball. You don't mess with a red-blooded post-WWI American and his baseball. XD**

 **There will probably be some Skilene in future chapters, but this isn't primarily a shipping fic. Just so's ya know.**


	2. Chapter 2

Marlene arrived back at the factory the next morning at nine o'clock. She had an hour before she'd told Skipper she'd be coming, which meant one hour to interview the workers without the supervisor breathing down her neck. It was time that she intended to use.

However, as she approached the factory, she realized, rather belatedly, that it would be difficult to avoid alerting Skipper to her presence: she was a snappily-dressed woman in a factory full of sweaty, greasy men. Cursing her own lack of foresight, she caught sight of Private and Rico chatting by the fence, and an idea presented itself. She could only hope that their loyalty to Skipper wouldn't prevent them from helping her out.

She approached the pair as discreetly as possible, catching their attention with a little wave. "Rico! Private!"

They turned to look at her, Private with a slight start, Rico with a grunt of confusion, tongue hanging out of his mouth. Private blinked. "Oh... Miss Marlene!" He smiled. "Do you need more information for your story?"

Marlene nodded. "I do. But... well, I have a little problem." She glanced side to side, making sure the coast was clear before continuing. "I'd really like to interview Mason and Phil; labor issues are really hot right now, you know. I'd like to get their take on the national debates and such."

"Oh, I see." Private looked thoughtful. "It's not always easy to tell where they'll be, but I can think of a few places we could try."

"That's great, thank you," Marlene said, lowering her voice, "but the thing is, I really stick out here. I don't want to unnecessarily distract anyone from his work. If you don't mind, I'd like to ask for your help with that."

Private tilted his head. "...Um, okay. What d'you want me to do?"

Marlene smirked. "Are you wearing pants under those overalls?"

* * *

A few minutes later, Marlene stood behind the fence, dressed in Private's overalls, her own white button-down shirt, and a grey newsboy's cap borrowed from Rico. She pulled the brim of the cap over her eyes and smudged some dirt on her face. "Well? How do I look?"

Rico looked mildly disgusted. "Blech."

Marlene would have punched him if he wasn't so much bigger than her. "Look, this isn't fashion week in Milan. I just need to know if I'll blend in."

"You look fine," Private told her, tugging down self-consciously on his pants, which were a few inches too short. "Just as long as the overalls cover your shoes and you don't let anyone get too close, you should be able to go completely unnoticed."

Marlene smiled gratefully. "Thanks... I really owe you one."

Private blushed. "Oh, think nothing of it," he said, waving a hand. "Now, let's get you to see Mason and Phil before our breaks are over."

The three of them headed towards the factory; just as Private had said, Marlene went relatively unnoticed. Still, she was constantly on the lookout for Skipper - if he caught her in this getup, he'd definitely think she was up to no good. Luckily, the supervisor seemed to be in some other part of the factory, so she made it to the area behind the blast furnaces without incident. She smiled to herself, shaking her head. _Who's paranoid now?_

Private led her to a relatively large empty space behind the furnaces, Rico trailing along behind them. There were very few other workers in sight, and Marlene could see why; the air back here felt a thousand times hotter than the rest of the factory. She wiped her brow, glancing around. "Mason and Phil usually stay back here?"

Private fanned himself with a hand. "Well, not usually, but things have been dicey between them and Skippah lately, so they prefer to stay out of each other's way. Skippah doesn't come back here often, so this is where they've camped out. They hold the union meetings here after the factory closes."

Marlene glanced towards one of the furnaces; the molten steel gave off an orange glow. It felt like being inside a volcano. "Are you and Rico union members?"

"Well, yes, almost everybody is," Private replied offhandedly. "But we don't get real involved." He smiled sheepishly. "I guess you could say we're not desperate enough... we're both single, we don't have wives or kids or anything like that. I can take a little wage cut, and I don't want to get blacklisted."

"Hey," Rico squawked, letting loose a string of slightly indignant gibberish. Private looked guilty. "Oh, I'm sorry, Rico. I forgot about your girlfriend."

Marlene tried to hide her shock, but she didn't quite succeed. "Rico has a girlfriend?!"

"Yeh!" Rico replied, looking proud. He reached into his pants pocket and produced a postcard-sized photo with weathered edges, holding it out to show to her. It featured a very shapely woman with blonde hair and a bright smile in a bathing suit, and was somewhat obviously a pin-up shot. Marlene tried to smile normally. "She's, ah, very pretty."

"That's Miss Perky," Private explained, pointing to the photo. "Rico takes her everywhere with him. His lieutenant gave her to him when they were in France."

Marlene gave him a long, hard look. "...Wait. So the postcard is the girlfriend?!"

"They have a beautiful love!" Private cried, suddenly seeming very defensive and rather sparkly-eyed. Rico nodded emphatically, clutching the photo to his chest. "Uh huh. Love."

Marlene sighed, deciding to just add this to the pile of distressing things she'd learned about Rico and leave it at that. "Right... love." She glanced around at the small groups of workers filtering through the space behind the furnaces. "So, which ones are Mason and Phil?"

She heard the sound of a man clearing his throat, and she spun around with a start. Two men stood behind her, both about the same height and build. One had messy reddish-brown hair and wore a rumpled tan button-down shirt, while the other sported a dark brown comb-over, a light yellow shirt, and suspenders. The second, more presentable-looking man gave Marlene an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry to have startled you," he began, speaking in an English accent that somehow seemed smoother than Private's, "but I couldn't help but overhear." He gestured to himself. "I'm Mason, and this is Phil." The other man gave her a wave.

Marlene waved back. "I'm Marlene. It's nice to meet you."

"Likewise." Mason smiled at her, raising an eyebrow. "Now, if I may ask, what brings a nice young lady like yourself to our corner of the factory?"

Marlene explained to him that she was writing a story for the paper, and he agreed to answer her questions; he seemed quite eager, in fact. "The truth is that the Penguin Company is relatively small, so not many others know of our union's efforts," Mason explained. "Of course, we've reached out to the Amalgamated Association of Iron and Steel Workers, but additional publicity couldn't hurt."

"You've been in touch with the AA?" Marlene echoed, pencil scratching against the surface of her notepad. She was finally getting what she'd come here for, and it took every ounce of her self-control to keep from showing her excitement. "Because of the wage cuts?"

Mason smiled knowingly. "My, you've certainly done your research."

Marlene gave him a sly grin. "Well, I am a reporter, after all."

Private pouted. "I told her about it, y'know..."

Mason ignored him. "Yes, it's about the wage cuts, but there's a little more to it than that." He sighed. "Conditions here aren't much worse than anywhere else, but frankly, conditions everywhere are deplorable. In this country, the working man is treated like a slave."

Marlene had to fight the urge to roll her eyes. _Try to sound a little less like a propaganda machine, would ya?_ "So, what specifically is so bad about this factory?"

Mason snorted. "Where to begin?" Beside him, Phil made swift motions with his hands - sign language, though Marlene had never learned it. No wonder the other man had been so silent. Mason watched the movements of Phil's fingers carefully, nodding. "Yes, the heat is certainly an issue, but that's to be expected at a steel mill. The problem is that a man working a full-day shift only receives two ten-minute breaks. It's constant, hard work, all day long, with no rest, and in an environment that is quite literally a furnace. Why, just last week, Bert collapsed and was out for nearly three hours. It happens more often than you'd think."

"That's certainly not good," Marlene agreed, writing as swiftly as she possibly could. She was a little disappointed, though; everything Mason had told her so far was fairly standard fare as far as factory working conditions were concerned. She might have to nudge him in a slightly more interesting direction. "You know, yesterday I met a man named Kowalski who's here as a scientific management consultant. It seems like he's not exactly very well-liked around here… why is that?"

Phil's hands moved rapidly, and though Marlene couldn't tell what he was signing, judging by his expression, it was probably something very insulting. Mason's eyes narrowed, and he huffed angrily. "Forgive me for sounding snide, but if you had an egomaniacal twit of a scientist who's obviously never actually worked a day in his life hovering over your shoulder constantly telling you how to do your job, you'd hate him, too." He sniffed. "Matter of fact, he's one of the biggest reasons things have gotten so bad here lately. Him and that tyrannical Skipper."

Private, who'd been watching the interview with idle curiosity, suddenly stepped towards Mason, anger in his expression. "Look, I understand you being mad at K'walski," he began, somewhat hesitant despite being clearly worked up. "But I won't stand for anybody badmouthing Skippah behind his back!" Rico seemed to share the sentiment, stepping forward menacingly and growling.

Mason sighed, raising his hands. "Alright, I'm sorry. I know how much you respect the man, but this is a factory, not the Marines. You can't work a man like a dog and then expect him to drop and give you twenty when he makes a mistake. Skipper's simply too wrapped up in his own world to realize that."

Private bristled, and Rico's growling increased in volume as he bared his teeth; he looked like he might actually eat Mason. Marlene's eyes widened, and she took a few steps back. As a reporter, she'd been in a few hairy situations before, but she really wasn't liking her chances if things got ugly here. Her hands made contact with the wall behind her, and she pressed up against it, watching with dread as Rico advanced towards the union leaders, who seemed to be gearing up for a fight. She closed her eyes. _I can't watch..._

"Alright, boys, break it up." Suddenly, Skipper appeared from out of nowhere, placing himself firmly between Rico and Mason. "Save the roughhousing for the yard; don't want to burn yourself back here." When Rico continued to growl, Skipper grabbed him by the front of his shirt and glared at him. "I said stand down, soldier. I don't know what started this, but I sure as hell won't allow fighting in my factory."

Rico glowered, but he backed off. Private looked extremely relieved, and his eyes began to look misty. "Skippah!" He sniffed.

Skipper glanced at him, then turned to face each of the others, a stern expression on his face. "Alright, which one of you boorish apes made Private cry?!" He leaned in close to Marlene, his eyes narrowed. "Was it you?!"

Marlene froze, her heart pounding. "I, uh, no, I-"

"Speak up, soldier!" Skipper barked, frosty blue eyes boring relentlessly into her own. "Rico's the only one allowed to stammer around here!" He paused, then tilted his head slightly, eyebrow raised. "Wait a minute… you're not one of my boys…"

Marlene winced, bringing her hands up to shield her face and closing her eyes. "I'm not a spy!" she blurted, expecting the supervisor to lash out at her. Instead, she only heard silence, then a low chuckle. She slowly lowered her arms and opened her eyes to find Skipper laughing lightly, his hands on his hips. "Well, well," he began, smirking at her. "Miss Marlene Ottinger. I suspected you might try something, but I didn't think you'd go this far. Very sneaky of you."

Marlene was silent for a moment, trying to figure out how best to respond to this turn of events. She ultimately decided that trying to lie to Skipper now wouldn't be worth it. Instead, she gave him an unsteady smile. "Well, I did tell you I'd see you at ten. It's ten now, isn't it?"

"Try nine-fifty," Skipper responded with a smirk. "I won't fault you for being fashionably early. But I must say that Private's overalls don't suit you at all."

Before he could say anything further, Mason cleared his throat. "Skipper, we need to talk."

"Do we?" Skipper's eyes seemed to turn cold upon noticing the union leader. "Well then, out with it."

Mason cast a somewhat nervous glance at Rico. "In your office. This matter requires privacy."

Skipper was silent for a few moments, frowning. Finally, he shrugged his shoulders. "Fine. Let's go." He seemed tense as he turned and walked away, Mason and Phil following close behind him. Before turning the corner back onto the main floor of the factory, he turned and looked over his shoulder at Marlene. "If you need anything, ask Kowalski. He should be somewhere around the stoves." There was an edge to his voice, yet Marlene sensed that it wasn't directed at her. "And don't even think about following me."

Marlene blinked. That last sentence had sounded strangely like an invitation. Her brow furrowed in concentration. _Matter of fact, Skipper didn't freak out nearly as much as I'd thought he would when he caught me dressed up like a worker. He seems... different today. Like he actually wants me here. But why?_

Private tapped her on the shoulder. "Um, Marlene, Rico and I have to get back to work, so-"

Marlene nodded absentmindedly, already heading in the direction Skipper had gone. There was no way her reporter's curiosity was going to let her do anything else. "I'll give you your clothes back later," she said hurriedly, dashing through the factory towards the supervisor's office.

She had a feeling that whatever Mason wanted to talk to Skipper about was going to make a fantastic story.

* * *

Kowalski heaved a sigh, surveying the factory with a gaze brimming with the dreary melancholy particular to those unlucky in love. Doris, whom he considered to be the love of his life, had let him down gently but firmly the night before, telling him in no uncertain terms that she liked him, but would never _like_ like him, and he'd had trouble dragging himself out of bed that morning. Kowalski had lived alone since he'd begun attending college, and now that he was approaching his thirtieth birthday, he was all too aware that the window of time during which it would be possible for a beautiful member of the opposite sex to find him attractive was beginning to close. This awareness, combined with the recent and explosive failure of an experimental side project he'd spent the better part of a year perfecting, left him wallowing in a mire of lethargy, depression, and self-pity. The fact that he'd never considered scientific management his true calling wasn't helping matters, either. He longed for a lab to call his own, where he could practice the sort of groundbreaking science that had always been his passion. If only he wasn't so bad at securing funding...

He was jolted from his thoughts as one of the dials on the stove next to him hissed. "Brahe's boxers!" he muttered, watching the indicator flutter back and forth. "Could simply be a faulty dial... or it could be overheating." He straightened, smoothing his lab coat. "I'd better tell Skipper."

He turned away from the stoves and headed towards the supervisor's office, passing Rico and Private on his way. _Odd..._ he thought to himself as they passed. _Private usually wears overalls... perhaps it's laundry day._

As he neared the office, he spotted someone kneeling underneath Skipper's window. The man wore a grey cap, a white shirt, and a pair of denim overalls, and appeared to be holding a glass to the wall, ear pressed against its base. Kowalski raised an eyebrow. Who would want to eavesdrop on Skipper...?

He tapped the eavesdropper's shoulder, and was surprised to find himself staring into a woman's face. She backed away from him, startled, and he blinked. "...Marlene?"

The reporter, apparently less than pleased to see him, tried to hide the glass behind her back. "D- Dr. Kowalski," she sputtered, forcing a smile. "Good morning... I didn't see you there."

Kowalski frowned, hands on his hips. He hoped he looked intimidating. "Ms. Ottinger, why are you eavesdropping on Skipper? That's very rude, not to mention questionable and suspicious."

Marlene held a finger to her lips to shush him. "Can you try to keep the stern admonitions down a bit?" she hissed, placing the glass back on the wall and pressing her ear against it. "Don't want them to hear us in case I'm wrong."

Kowalski raised an eyebrow, kneeling down until his face was nearly level with Marlene's. She'd always spoken to him in complete sentences before, but now she seemed very excited, and her manners appeared to be slipping. "Wrong about what? What exactly is going on in there?"

"Wrong about Skipper wanting me to hear this," Marlene replied offhandedly, straining to hear through the glass. "And as for the second question, if you don't shut up, we'll never know, now will we?"

Kowalski thought for a moment. He had to admit, he was curious about what could be so interesting as to drive a professional woman like Marlene to dress in drag and eavesdrop in the most obvious way possible... and if Skipper really was not opposed to her listening in, then...

Marlene grumbled under her breath, adjusting the glass. "This isn't working... the wall must be too thick. I'm hearing voices, but I can't make out what they're saying."

Kowalski decided that he would do something unorthodox. He stood up, stepping towards the other side of the office, and motioned for Marlene to follow him. "There is an air vent located approximately four inches off the ground on the south side of the supervisor's office - I believe it is possible to hear even the softest whisper inside the office from there. I passed the vent once and accidentally overheard Skipper mumbling something about Denmark."

He realized immediately that the last part may have been a bit too much, but it had caught Marlene's attention. She sprang to her feet. "Where's this air vent?!"

"This way," Kowalski replied, jogging around to the right side of the office; the air vent was in the corner where the office wall met the wall of the factory itself. Marlene rushed forward, pulling out her notepad and pencil and crouching down, ear next to the metal grating. Kowalski sunk to his knees, his head next to hers. The two of them were completely silent, waiting with bated breath. Kowalski found himself smiling, adrenaline pumping through his veins. This was exciting.

A voice sounded from within the office, echoing through the vent. It was Mason. "We've already contacted the AA, Skipper. We simply wanted to give you one last chance to revise your position and negotiate with us."

"You know I can't do that," Skipper replied firmly, the vent giving his voice a harsh, metallic tone. "I've said this a million times, but I'll say it again: the bosses haven't authorized me to meet any of your demands. If you have a problem, take it up with the central office."

Mason sighed. "Always the military man, following orders from above. I had hoped you would show some initiative, considering how obviously attached you are to the men here. But it looks like you're going to disappoint us again after all."

Skipper's next comment sounded curt, full of restrained anger. "Is that all you came here to say?"

"Of course not." Mason's voice was firm. "The AA is coordinating a national strike among steel mill workers, and we will be joining starting tomorrow." There was the sound of a chair scraping against the floor - most likely Mason standing. "We just wanted you to know that you've brought this upon yourself."

Kowalski didn't hear Skipper's reply; he was too busy processing what he had just heard. _The workers are going on strike?_ He'd heard all about the many strikes that occurred almost weekly across the nation - they were violent, chaotic affairs, and always ended with men beaten beyond recognition and the firing of shots. And tomorrow, he would be in the thick of it.

Beside him, Marlene scribbled on her notepad, an ecstatic grin on her face. "Finally!" she murmured to herself, Kowalski's very existence having disappeared from her thoughts. "This is the scoop I've been waiting for!"

Kowalski paled. He only hoped her scoop wouldn't be the death of him.

* * *

 **Author's Note: Dun dun DUUUNNN! XD**

 **Will our gangly scientist survive the strike? What's up with Skipper's conspicuous lack of raving paranoia? Will Private ever get his overalls back? Find out next time!**


	3. Chapter 3

Marlene drew up her knees to her chest, snuggling into a secluded corner behind the stoves and flipping to a new page in her notepad, struggling to suppress the smile that spread across her face. This was exactly what she'd been looking for: her source had told her that there were rumors of a strike in the works, and she'd just gotten confirmation from the union leaders themselves. Not only that, but she'd be able to get first-hand coverage before and during a strike that was being coordinated by the AA all across the nation. No one else in New York had this info; no one but her. She made notes as quickly as she possibly could, grinning ear to ear. "They'll have to put me on the front page now," she murmured to herself, barely able to contain her excitement. "There's no way they won't. It'll be my headline for sure!"

Someone to her left cleared his throat, and she turned her head to find Kowalski towering over her, looking fidgety. "Ah, Marlene… I hope I'm not bothering you…"

Marlene sighed, reluctantly placing her pencil and notepad in her lap. The strike wouldn't start until tomorrow, so she did have quite a bit of time to collect her notes. "No, not at all." She stood up, brushing herself off. "What is it?"

"Well, ah, that is to say…" Kowalski seemed a little paler than usual; something had him spooked. "Do you think Mason and Phil are really serious about… you know…?"

Marlene suddenly realized why Kowalski was so jumpy, and she winced. Of course the strikers were going to rip him to shreds the moment he passed the edge of the fence tomorrow; even the oblivious scientist had to be aware of that much. And here she was, acting like it was Christmas morning right in front of him. She immediately felt bad, and tried to mold her features into a more neutral expression. "They sounded serious to me. But don't worry," she added as Kowalski's expression fell. "From the way that conversation went, it sounds like this has been building up for some time. Skipper's not stupid; I'm sure he'll have a plan."

Kowalski raised an eyebrow. "A plan? What sort of plan?" His eyes lit up, the gears in his mind turning. "Do you think he'll ask me to use my new prototype electromagnetic containment field to keep the workers inside the factory?"

"Yeah- Wait, what?!" Marlene frowned. Didn't this guy know anything? "No, that's absurd. ...And illegal." She held up her pencil like a pointer. "The way to break a strike is to hire scabs."

Kowalski gave her a confused look. "I'm sorry, I'm not entirely up-to-date on my working-class slang."

Marlene sighed. Of course not. "The word 'scab' just refers to a new worker that's hired to fill the place of a worker on strike. A strike only works if the workers can stop the factory's production - hiring scabs keeps that from happening."

"I see!" Kowalski stroked his chin. "So the reason strikes are so violent is that the strikers have to prevent the 'scabs' from coming in to work, or it's all over for them. And the factory needs the new workers to avoid losing money."

"That's right." Marlene gave Kowalski a comforting smile. "So don't worry too much. Skipper's bound to have a way to protect you from the strikers - it's par for the course. Believe me, I've seen these things play out a lot more often than you'd think."

Kowalski didn't look entirely at ease, but he nodded. "Of course, it would be nice to know what exactly Skipper's plan is."

Marlene grinned, brandishing her pencil and notepad. "Don't worry, doc, that's what I'm here for." She tapped her pencil. "Hmm… you seem to be the only one besides Skipper who holds any kind of administrative role in this factory - am I right?"

Kowalski nodded. "There are foremen who oversee small groups of workers, but they have their own labor jobs, as well. Skipper is the only administrator... and truthfully, I'm really more of a consultant."

"But you use the office, right?" Marlene prodded, pointing her eraser at him. "It's the only place around here where you could store all your data. So you see Skipper's calendar every time you come in to work." She gave him a knowing look. "You'd know if he had any special appointments today, right?"

Kowalski seemed hesitant. "I'm not sure if I should be divulging-"

"Hey, you're the one who said you wanted to know what Skipper's plan was," Marlene reminded him, folding her arms. "Besides, we already know about the strike - it couldn't hurt to find out what he's going to do about it."

Kowalski sighed, defeated. "That does seem logical." He gave her a thoughtful look. "Let's see… I don't recall anything out of the ordinary for today…" His eyes widened. "Actually, I do remember seeing a note about meeting someone named Savio at twelve. It was odd, because Skipper usually makes a note if the person's coming from an external company... but I didn't see anything like that, nor do I recognize the name."

Marlene cast a glance at her watch. "Twelve… that's in five minutes!" She jogged back towards the supervisor's office, glancing over her shoulder to give Kowalski a grin. "Well? Are you going to listen in with me or not?"

Kowalski followed her, an eyebrow raised. "How can you be sure that this Savio person even has anything to do with the strike?"

"I can't. Not really." Marlene tugged Rico's cap down over her eyes. "But I have a feeling that they're involved somehow. Call it reporter's instinct."

* * *

The two of them reached the supervisor's office with a few minutes to spare. As the hour approached, Marlene stealthily crept towards the front hallway, hoping to catch a glimpse of this Savio person. She knew she was being reckless, but this was just getting too exciting for her to pass up. She could only hope that Skipper wouldn't mind her hearing this conversation, as well; she had a feeling that if he'd really wanted to keep the news of the strike from her, he would have kicked her out already.

She began to hear the clack of shoes from down the hall, and strained to see who they belonged to without being seen herself. She was able to catch a glimpse of a tall, thin man with dark hair and skin. He was dressed in a light suit and shoes with a tan patterned tie, giving him a tropical look, and he carried himself with a natural grace. Marlene only had a few seconds to look at him before Kowalski pulled her back around the corner. "Is that Savio?" he hissed, lab coat bunched up around his knees.

Marlene resisted the urge to snap at him. "It must be," she whispered instead. "That guy is definitely not a worker."

She heard the office door swing open and shut, and she hurried to the air vent, backing up an inch to make sure Kowalski could hear, too.

A voice filtered through the vent. "Mr. McGrath, I presume?" It was Savio; his tone was warm, smooth, and tinged with an exotic accent, holding on the 's' a little too long. It made him sound rather snakelike.

"Please, call me Skipper." The supervisor's tone was formal, but curt.

"Ah, yes, of course." There was a faint rustling. "I am João Savio, from the Pinkerton Detective Agency."

Marlene gasped silently, whipping out her pencil and notepad. The Pinkertons were the most famous strike breakers in the country; she hadn't been expecting Penguin Steel to even have the money to afford them.

"I've been expecting you," Skipper replied, sounding terse.

Savio chuckled softly. "Naturally. You seem very on top of things here." There was a metal scraping noise, probably Savio helping himself to one of Skipper's chairs. "Your company has already hired replacement workers, yes?"

"That's right. We've known about this strike for a while, just didn't expect it to come quite so soon. Even so, I can get new guys in tomorrow." There was a certain reluctance to Skipper's tone, and realization dawned on Marlene. He didn't want to have to fire the strikers - the officer in him probably considered them his men. But there was nothing he could do except resolve things in a way that would keep the company running.

"Excellent." Savio seemed either not to hear the edge in Skipper's voice, or else chose to ignore it. "I have a number of agents already in place within the strikers' ranks, of course. And the agency has provided me with more than enough raw manpower for tomorrow, as well. Since it will ultimately be your name on this, I didn't want to start anything without your word."

Skipper snorted. "That's very considerate of you, but I think we both know you're not really working for me."

Savio gave a satisfied 'hm.' "Yes, well, my paycheck may be coming from your bosses in Boston, but for now my men and I are tools at your disposal."

"That's a very handy way of ducking responsibility if anything goes wrong."

"Nothing will go wrong." Savio's voice was serious. "Of that you can be certain."

"I can't be certain of anything," Skipper replied testily. "I just want this over with as soon as possible."

"Don't worry, so do I." Savio's amicable manner had returned. "Though I appreciate your prudence, I _am_ on your side, you know."

"...Right." Skipper didn't sound convinced. "Look, whatever you need to do for tomorrow, do it. I have to get back to work."

"Of course." There was the sound of a chair scraping across the floor. "I'll be back before closing time to update you on the situation if anything changes. But I doubt it will; you have a fairly tame union here." The office door swung open, and Savio stepped out into the hallway, dipping his head. "Good day." He turned and strode down the hall without waiting for Skipper to return the sentiment, which was just as well, as Marlene had a feeling that the supervisor hadn't been planning on doing so, anyway.

As soon as Savio disappeared from view, she jumped to her feet and started dragging Kowalski back towards the floor of the factory. The scientist let out a yelp of protest. "What are you-"

"We gotta make tracks," Marlene hissed, glancing briefly over her shoulder towards the front of the office. "You heard Skipper; he's going back to work. That means he'll be leaving his office any second now, and if he catches us hanging around here we are deader than a cow in a slaughterhouse!"

Kowalski paused for a moment. "Ooh, nice analogy."

"Come on!"

* * *

Private squinted down at the factory floor from his position on top of furnace two, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. "Oi," he shouted down to Rico, who was stoking the fire in the stove, "is that Marlene?"

Rico turned in the direction he'd indicated, then looked up at Private, nodding. "Yah! An' 'Walski!"

Private leaned over the edge of the furnace. "If they come over here, can you ask Marlene if I can have my overalls back?"

Rico shrugged. "Okay." As soon as the journalist entered their section of the factory, he cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, "'Ey, Mah'leen! Gi' Pri'ate 'iz pants back!"

All eyes in the factory immediately turned to the young topman, who blushed. Joey sent him a sly wink. "'Ow's the nookie, mate?"

"It's not like that!" Private shouted down at him, eliciting a few snickers and some lewd whistles from the other workers. He whimpered, inching backwards until he could no longer be seen from the foot of the furnace. "Rico..."

Rico glanced up at him apologetically, shrugging. "Mah bad."

Marlene, for her part, simply rolled her eyes, heading towards Rico, dragging Kowalski along behind her. "Don't worry, Private, I work with journalists. They're a lot more creative with their insults than these mugs."

Private peeked his head out over the edge of the furnace, then shimmied down a line of steel rungs built into the side and hopped off to land on his feet next to Rico. "Did you hear what Mason and Phil said to Skippah?" he asked Marlene, a little disapproving but mostly curious. He knew she couldn't resist eavesdropping. "They just called an urgent meeting for tonight. Are they finally gonna walk out?"

Marlene glanced side to side, making sure that none of the other workers were listening, then discreetly nodded her head. "They're trying for tomorrow. What are you going to do?"

Private didn't have to waste much time in giving her his answer; he'd been thinking about it since he'd seen the union leaders earlier that day. There weren't many things that could dampen his mood, but this was one of them. He sighed, shoulders slumping. "I don't want to undermine the others' efforts… I really don't. I think they're right to protest, and they're brave… much braver than me. But the truth is, I really need this job. I can't afford to get blacklisted… so…"

Rico placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "Rico too," he grunted. "Stay. 'S'okay."

Private nodded silently, not meeting his gaze. It didn't feel okay to him. He felt like a coward. He turned to Marlene. "When you write your story, make sure to tell it from their side of things, too. I read the papers; they always make it seem like the men who go on strike are the bad guys, but they're not. A lot of them are really great."

Marlene nodded, her expression serious. "So who do you think are the bad guys, then?"

"I don't think there are any bad guys at all, really," Private said honestly. "I think it's just hard for everyone. Some people have the fire to fight it, and that's why we end up with a mess of things." He looked Marlene in the eye. "Promise you'll tell it from both sides?"

Marlene held her hand over her heart, fingers twined around her pencil. "Promise." She looked like she wanted to say something else, but suddenly, she stopped, her eyes focused on something he couldn't see. "Of course!" she murmured, tapping her pencil. "So that's why..."

Private tilted his head slightly, quizzical. "...That's why what?"

Marlene just smiled, shaking her head. She'd clearly figured something out, but for whatever reason, she wasn't telling him. "Let's just say I think I know someone who secretly agrees with you."

* * *

Despite the morning's excitement, the rest of the day at the factory crept along much as usual. Having worked a letterpress herself for a while in her early days, Marlene could understand the appeal of routine in the workplace - hard work kept the mind from wandering. She floated through the factory, picking up notes and little details where she could. News of the night's urgent union meeting was passed casually and generally received with idle nods and offhand comments - no one was making a fuss. There would be plenty of time for that later.

She interviewed Mason and Phil a second time, fishing for the gritty details of the planned strike, but the union leaders seemed more cautious of her now and dodged most of her questions. Instead, she decided to try talking to more of the workers. She met Randy, a friendly man with a head of fluffy light blonde hair and a wife and three kids at home; Joey, a bawdy, irritable Australian who talked about himself in the third person and was saving money to bring his 'Sheila' up to New York from Sydney; Burt, a gentle giant with a head of greying hair and a desire to teach his six grandchildren how to paint; and many, many more. Marlene found, as she often did when interviewing, that each of them had his own story, one that could easily fill several columns. Sometimes she regretted that she couldn't publish it all; this was definitely one of those times.

By the time closing rolled around, she'd nearly filled her notepad. As she stood by the fence in the yard, watching the men file out through the front doors and idly weighing her options for purchasing a new one, someone tapped her on the shoulder, and she jumped, whirling around with a quiet gasp.

It was Private; behind him stood Rico, Kowalski, and Skipper, the latter with his hands on his hips. Marlene hadn't seen much of the supervisor that day - she'd been almost unintentionally avoiding him, if only to make sure she didn't accidentally clue him in to her earlier eavesdropping. It was rapidly becoming a cold night, and at some point he'd put on a long Ulster overcoat. Like the rest of him, it was crisp and freshly-pressed, though its tatty cuffs suggested it had seen better days. Now that Skipper was out of the factory and wearing ordinary clothes, he somehow seemed more approachable, though his authoritative air was still strong.

Private looked a little guilty. "I'm sorry, did I startle you?"

Marlene waved it off. "No, not at all. What's up?"

Private shuffled his feet. "Um, could I please have my overalls back?"

Marlene blinked. ... _Oh._ She'd forgotten she still had them on.

Rico stepped forward slightly, holding out his hand. "Yah. An' hat."

Marlene held up her hands. "Okay, okay, just hold on a sec." Retrieving her blazer from where she'd hidden it inside a bush on the other side of the fence, she doffed the hat and started to slip the straps of the overalls off her shoulders, when she noticed all four of the men watching her. Even though she was fully dressed underneath, she still felt slightly self-conscious, so she glared at them. "Do you mind?!"

Private squealed and turned away, covering his face with his hands. Kowalski and Skipper both shuffled around, turning their backs to her. Rico, on the other hand, simply stood there. "Nope."

Marlene glared at him, narrowing her eyes, until he eventually sighed and turned around. Marlene shook her head, slipping out of the overalls, smoothing her skirt, and shrugging on her blazer. "Alright, here you go," she said to Private, handing him back his overalls. She threw the hat in Rico's face. "There. Anything else?"

"Well, actually," Kowalski began, but Skipper stepped forward, cutting him off. He gave her a sly smile. "The boys and I are heading out to a little place nearby to get some food... and maybe a couple drinks. You game?"

Marlene was surprised by the offer; after a moment of thought, she gave him a critical look. "What's the catch?"

Skipper shrugged. "No catch. Just figured you've been here a long time and might like to kick back. Private's the one who suggested inviting you, actually."

The young worker smiled brightly. "I thought it might be fun." His smile dimmed slightly. "Unless you're too busy..."

Marlene thought about it for a moment. After spending all day in that factory, she really could use a drink. "No, I'd be happy to join you." She smirked, raising an eyebrow. "I just wanna know how you got Kowalski to come along."

The scientist held up his pointer finger. "Drinking in groups serves an important social function that helps to relieve stress. This ultimately improves efficiency, so who am I to say no?"

 _Figures it would be for science._ Marlene turned to Skipper. "So, where is this place?"

"Not far, only a couple of blocks." Skipper shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat. "But we're gonna stop by Private's place first."

Private nodded, looking a little sheepish. "Uncle Nigel will worry if I stay out too late without telling him."

Marlene could understand that; as sweet as Private was, she'd probably worry about him, too. "Fine by me."

* * *

By the time the five of them made it to the restaurant, the sky was already dark, and Marlene was in a bit of a somber mood. Private had led them into his little one-room apartment and introduced her to his Uncle Nigel, who was bedridden with the Spanish flu. The older man was affable and had a quiet charisma despite his pallor and pneumatic cough. It was obvious that he wasn't doing well, and Marlene knew now why Private had said that he so desperately needed to keep his job. She'd spent the walk to the restaurant mulling over what she'd seen, wondering how Private could be so damn happy when he was eighteen and his only family was dying. The others didn't seem to share her concerns, probably because they'd known about Private's situation longer than she had. Still, she felt a lingering sense of injustice as the five of them stepped through the doors of The Salty Herring.

The first thing Marlene noticed once she crossed the threshold was that the restaurant was smoky, loud, and filled with a pervasive scent of fish. It wasn't exactly the Yale Club, but she didn't mind; it seemed like the perfect innocuous little place to kick back.

Even though there was a bit of a crowd, as soon as Skipper planted himself at an already-occupied table, the rest of it suddenly opened up, no questions asked. The men who had given up their seats seemed mostly deferential, though Marlene did catch one of them sneaking a fearful glance at Rico. Evidently, both the supervisor and the stove tender had quite the reputation here.

Private slid into the seat on Skipper's left, folding his hands on the table and swinging his feet. Rico plopped down next to him with a grunt, and Kowalski gingerly sat himself down next to Rico, letting his lab coat hang down over the back of the chair like a curtain. Skipper turned to Marlene and patted the chair on his right. "Have a seat. Drinks are on me."

Marlene obliged, hopping onto the chair and smoothing her skirt over her crossed legs. "Thanks. I'll have a bourbon."

Skipper smirked, raising an eyebrow. "That's hard stuff there, little lady. You sure you can handle it?"

Marlene rolled her eyes at him, returning the smirk. "Please. I could drink all of you boys under the table any day of the week."

Skipper snorted. "I doubt it. Rico here once drank a whole keg of beer and still came in to work the next morning." Rico nodded, looking proud of himself.

Marlene shrugged. "Okay, maybe not him." She smirked. "But I'll take the rest of you daisies on. What're ya having, strawberry daiquiris?"

It was a bold challenge, and Skipper's face took on an expression of resolve as he motioned a waiter over. "Three beers for the boys, a straight whiskey for me..." He smirked at Marlene. "...and a bourbon for the lady."

When Marlene received her drink, she held up the glass to Skipper and smirked. "Bottoms up."

Skipper returned the gesture. "Let's see what you've got."

* * *

Half an hour later, Marlene and Skipper were the only ones still at the table. Rico and Private were engaged in a game of pool that Private was losing badly but seemed to be enjoying nonetheless, and Kowalski had started rather tactlessly chatting up a slight woman with white-blonde hair and a Russian accent. Marlene was slowly and steadily making her way through the plate of oysters Skipper had treated her to in acknowledgement of his defeat, savoring the delicious fruits of her victory. She hadn't been lying when she'd said that she could really hold her liquor; she'd beaten bigger men before, and though Skipper had put up a very good fight, he was still only slightly taller than her and thus never stood a chance. While she was admittedly feeling more than a little tipsy herself, the supervisor was absolutely smashed, wavering side to side to the point of almost slipping off his chair. Marlene smirked, picking up an oyster. "D'you need me to take you home?"

"Aw, lay off," Skipper slurred, gripping the edge of the table to steady himself. "I'm not that drunk."

Marlene giggled, and Skipper groaned. "I mean it. Give it a rest, Hans."

Marlene blinked, at first taken aback, then curious. She hadn't met anyone at the factory by that name, and Skipper hadn't mentioned it before. "Who's Hans?"

Skipper seemed to realize that he'd slipped, and a brief look of something like horror and pain twisted his features before he turned away from her, his fists clenched. "That's classified," he muttered, a dangerous edge to his voice. "Now back off, would ya?"

Marlene nodded, quietly turning her attention back to her oysters. She knew enough to leave him alone for a while until whatever memories had taken hold of him had passed.

* * *

As the night wore on, the others slowly filtered out of the restaurant. Private was the first to leave, claiming that he made it a practice to be in bed by eleven-thirty at the latest. Kowalski left soon after him, arm-in-arm and necking with the white-haired woman; Rico was so disgusted by the display that he upchucked the ten beers he'd had that evening and had to be escorted out by the staff. It was at that point that Skipper, who'd recovered enough to feel a certain obligation to act the gentleman, offered to walk Marlene home. If it had been anyone else, she would have refused. But even slightly inebriated, Skipper had an inexplicable pull that left her unable to say no.

The two of them walked down the street, matching pace with each other, enjoying a comfortable silence that was reflected in the empty sidewalks and the closed doors and windows of the shops. Marlene had always liked the city best at night; it still thrummed with life, but felt more at peace with itself than it did during the day. The smog mostly obscured the stars, but the moon was bright and full, and the air was cold and clear.

After they'd gone a couple of blocks, Skipper cleared his throat, not meeting her gaze. "Sorry. For snapping at you earlier, I mean."

Marlene shrugged. "You were pretty bent."

"That's no excuse." Skipper clasped his hands behind his back. "It was egregious misconduct on my part. A soldier must exercise strict self-control over his words and his actions at all times."

Marlene bit her lip; Skipper seemed to be dragging his foot a little more than usual. "You're not a soldier anymore," she reminded him, as gently as she could.

Skipper was silent for a moment. "...You're right; I'm not."

The two of them lapsed back into silence, though it felt a bit more tense now than before. Eventually, Marlene decided that it was time for her to find out for sure something she'd been wondering about all day. "You really care about the guys at the factory. You want me to write my story from their side of things, because that's the only thing you can do to help them."

Skipper didn't reply, but Marlene felt she could take that as a yes. They were both silent for a few more blocks, when Skipper suddenly spoke up. "This stuff isn't going in the paper, is it?"

Marlene smiled softly. "Nah... I'm off the clock."

Skipper nodded thoughtfully. He had the look of someone who needed to get something off his chest. "You still wanna know about Hans?"

Marlene paused for a moment, trying to figure out where this was coming from. Maybe it was the alcohol; maybe it was the stress of the coming strike; or maybe it was just that she was almost a stranger, and wouldn't be there to remind him of whatever he told her. Whatever the reason, Marlene sensed that this was something that Skipper had bottled inside, and was just now starting to bubble to the surface. She nodded slowly. "If that's okay."

"Well, it's kind of a long story." Though he slowed his pace, Skipper kept walking, looking straight ahead. "I told you how I was first lieutenant on the Pike. She was a big sub, had a lot of men on board. I was good friends with two of them; Rob Johnson and I grew up together, and I met Tony Manfredi in basic training. Then there was Captain Rockgut... he was something of a mentor to me. I really admired him."

The use of the past tense was not lost on Marlene.

"Anyway," Skipper continued, "we were escorting a Danish trader, to protect her from German U-boats. Everything was going well, so we stopped at a little port village in France for shore leave. I could never remember the name of that place. There was only one bar, so we filled the whole joint. The Danish sailors from the trader were there, too, but we stayed away from each other for the most part. Manfredi and Johnson had gone out to get tattoos, but I... don't like needles, so I was waiting at the bar when one of the Danes just up and sits down next to me and buys me a drink. No reason - said he was bored and liked my flat head. He introduced himself as Hans Østergaard.

We got to talking, and became fast friends. In fact, we spent the whole rest of our shore leave together, doing stupid stuff like trying to pick up French girls and having drinking contests. I thought we really hit it off... I forgot all about Manfredi and Johnson and the rest of the guys on the Pike. Before it was time to go back out to sea, Hans insisted on showing me around the Danish ship. I thought it was a good idea; I'd get to actually see what we were escorting. As we were walking around on deck, Hans was called away by the first mate, so he told me to stay put and wait for him. Honestly, that's what I should have done. But when he didn't come back after almost an hour, I got antsy and decided to go looking for him.

I found him below decks, with the dinghies. He was fitting one of them out for use and putting on diving gear. I asked him what was going on, and he looked surprised and almost guilty, like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Then he smiled, and said that this had worked out better than he'd expected.

Before I could ask him what he meant, he pulled out a pistol and shot my knee out. I didn't even have time to realize he'd betrayed me until I was on the floor, trying desperately to keep my eyes open. Hans must have known that I wasn't going to go down easy, 'cause he picked up an oar and held it up like a baseball bat."

Skipper's tone was cold and deeply bitter. "I've never forgotten what he said to me then, because it's what made me realize just how much of a fool I'd been. He said, 'Tut mir leid, Steve,' then hit me on the head with the oar. It was German for 'sorry.'

I have no idea how long I was out. When I finally came to, I was floating in the smaller dinghy, dizzy with blood loss. Eventually, I managed to sit up and get my bearings. Then I saw..." Skipper's voice broke for a moment. "The Danish trader was wrecked. She'd been torpedoed and was sinking. Her crew had abandoned her, but Hans had destroyed the remaining dinghies and lifeboats, so they either clung to the pieces of their ship or drowned and floated at the surface. They were too far out to swim to shore. I tried to get closer, but I didn't have any oars, so I didn't get too far."

He paused, expression somber. "Just close enough to see that the Pike had sunk."

Somewhere along the line, they'd stopped under a streetlight; it cast Skipper's face in an artificial glow. He had gone silent, but Marlene could infer the rest of the story from his stance, his expression. His best friends and captain, along with his ship, were at the bottom of the ocean in some backwater in France, and the worst part was that he hadn't gone down with them.

His story over, Skipper tried to shrug it off. "Anyway, that's why I'm so leery of new faces, just in case you were planning on writing about me as some paranoid nutjob."

Marlene wanted desperately to reach out and hug him, and possibly never let him go, but she knew that he didn't want to dwell on his story anymore now that it was finished. He'd gotten it over with, and Marlene would do her part and pretend she'd forgotten all about it. She gave him an impish smirk. "Actually, I still think that's a fairly accurate description."

Skipper huffed, folding his arms. "Dammit, woman, I'm trying to be vulnerable here! I thought you dames were all about _sharing your feelings_ or whatever."

And just like that, he'd recovered, perhaps even seeming a little bit better, and Marlene couldn't help but smile. "And on that fantastically ignorant note, my apartment is over there." She pointed to a building a ways down the street. "I can find my way back from here, thanks."

Skipper shoved his hands into his coat pockets. "Good; I was getting tired of standing around jawing." He gave her a sly smile. "I suppose I'll be seeing you tomorrow?"

Marlene returned the expression. "Naturally."

"Alright, then I'm off. And if anybody asks, you didn't hear anything from me." He turned and started to walk away, his uneven gait slow and unhurried. "Take care of yourself," he called out over his shoulder, almost as an afterthought. "Come morning, the factory won't be any place for a lady."

Marlene watched him go, her hand raised in a hesitant wave. She'd never thought of herself as much of a lady, but somehow she didn't mind the term coming from him. "You take care of yourself, too," she murmured, watching him walk past the edge of the glow cast by the streetlight and disappear into the night.

* * *

 **Author's Note: To those of you who made it through that ungodly long chapter, I extend my congratulations, thanks, and respect. I barely made it, myself. *falls over and dies***

 **There's just so much that I want to shove into this story, but I promised myself it would only be a couple of chapters, so this happened. Eeehhhhh...**

 **Fun fact: oysters were the quintessential working-class food at this time, but they also have a long history of being known as aphrodisiacs. ;)**


	4. Chapter 4

_\- - September 21st - -_

* * *

Private held a hand over his mouth, yawning softly. Uncle Nigel noticed and raised an eyebrow. "...You were out late last night."

Private winced, kneeling down next to the bed to tie his boot laces. "I- Is there something wrong with that?"

His uncle studied him critically for a few moments, then slowly broke out into a grin. "Nothing at all, m'boy." He gave a wracking cough, and Private reached over and handed him his handkerchief, which he held to his mouth. As his coughing began to die down, he smiled weakly and ruffled Private's hair. "You're a man now, lad. I've been waiting for you to break curfew for years. I'm so proud of you."

Private bit his lip, focusing on tying his other boot. "...I'm sorry I'm such a nancy-cat..."

Nigel sighed. "Oh, don't apologize. I might have liked a tougher nephew, but the truth is that you remind me of your mum."

Private sat down at the end of the bed, swinging his legs underneath him. "What was she like? You never talk about my parents."

"You never asked. Not in years, anyway." Nigel sat up a little straighter, the old bed creaking as he moved. "Why the sudden interest?"

"Well, I..." Private avoided his uncle's gaze. "There's a strike on at the factory today, and I... I guess I'm a little scared, is all." In reality, he was much more than a little scared, but his uncle didn't need to know that.

Nigel hummed, nodding slowly. "I see." He seemed to sense the gravity of the situation, but wasn't commenting on it. That was one of the things Private liked best about his uncle - he did worry from time to time, but he never let on. His calm and stiff upper lip were infectious. Somehow, Private already felt just a little bit better.

Nigel leaned back, smiling a little. He knew full well the effect he had on his nephew. "Well, your mum was always tender-hearted..."

* * *

Rico stumbled out of bed, reaching groggily for a pair of pants resting on the top of a haphazard pile of laundry. He never remembered his dreams, but he must have had one about the war, because the sound of explosions was still ringing in his ears. He smiled to himself, hopping around on one leg, trying to get the other one into the pants.

He knew that the coming day would probably be dangerous for him, but he didn't mind. In fact, he was excited. He was almost hoping that the strikers would recruit a bomber, though he couldn't imagine what for. Reasons didn't matter much to Rico; he simply enjoyed destruction for its own sake.

He hadn't realized that until he'd fought, though. The Rico who had left for France had been easily startled by loud noises, and Lieutenant Daniels had ribbed him for it. Looking back, he probably would have made fun of his old self, too. As the fighting dragged on, the booming sound of shells in the night had sung him to sleep - it had become a comfort, because it reminded him that he was still alive. New York City was noisy, sure, but the low hum of traffic could never replace the violence and raw power of a good explosion. Even the steel furnace stoves with their white-hot flames and sharp crackles and sparks couldn't quite measure up, though they did keep him entertained. He found himself once again wishing that the strikers would bring in a bomber and blow something up. Even better, maybe _he_ could blow something up. Maybe even multiple somethings. The thought left him grinning widely, his fingers itching with anticipation. Oh, yes, he'd explode something today if it was the last thing he ever did.

Once he was dressed, he crouched down in the corner of his room, lifting the latch on a small, beat-up wooden chest. Inside lay a thick cylindrical bundle, tied with twine and wrapped in brown paper. Rico grinned, tenderly lifting the bundle out of the chest and placing it into a knapsack, which he then swung over his shoulder. For once, he was really looking forward to going to work.

* * *

Kowalski let out a quiet sigh, keeping his eyelids closed. Memories of last night were starting to filter back to him, but he didn't feel like getting up just yet.

When he finally did open his eyes, he was briefly surprised to see a small woman with a white-blonde bob leaning on his dresser, buttoning up her sweater. Then he remembered; her name was Eva, he'd met her last night. She was interested in science, they'd gotten to talking, and then... he was actually a bit fuzzy on what had happened after that, but he could infer.

Eva cast him an impassive glance, fastening the top button with thin fingers. "I should be going," she said simply, standing up straight.

Kowalski sat up in bed, noticing that he was still wearing his clothes from yesterday, minus his lab coat and tie. He turned to Eva. "Ah... did we...?"

Eva regarded him as a researcher might regard her subject. "No."

Kowalski blinked. "...Oh. Then what _did_ happen? If you'll pardon me asking."

Eva shrugged. "We got into bed, but didn't do anything. You were too tense, and I lost interest. It was nice in its own way, though." She started to head towards the door.

"Wait!" Kowalski bit his lip. "...Will I ever see you again?"

Eva blinked owlishly. "Not likely." She started to leave, then briefly turned back, a small smile on her face. "Unless you attend the Socialist party meetings."

With that, she slipped out the door, leaving Kowalski sitting in bed, somewhat dumbstruck. "The... Socialist party, you say?" he squeaked, even though Eva was already gone. He couldn't believe what he'd (almost) gotten himself into. This wasn't like him.

He sighed and slumped forward, holding his head in his hands. He'd just remembered what was to happen today, and even though Marlene had tried to prepare him for it yesterday, he still felt uneasy. Had his actions in bringing Eva home with him been fueled by some sort of 'carpe diem' sentiment? That seemed plausible. But then again, it was equally plausible that this had something to do with Doris. Was he trying to get his mind off of her, or was this instead a kind of personal revenge against her snubbing his affections? Or, more likely, was it some combination of all three?

Kowalski flopped back onto his pillow, staring dolefully up at the ceiling. Whenever his own actions strayed from the path of rational control that he strived to follow, nothing good came of it.

He didn't usually trust his intuition, but he had a feeling that today would not end well for him.

* * *

Marlene weaved through the maze of desks and stacks of copy that cluttered the offices of The New York Herald, heading towards the back of the room as quickly as she could. She wanted to head out to the factory, but she hadn't told her editor what she was up to yet, so she thought it would be a good idea to at least check in with him before she left.

Upon reaching his office, she knocked lightly on the door, then pulled it open and stepped inside. "I'm going out on a story, be back later."

Her editor, Antonio, raised an eyebrow, leaning over his desk with his hand outstretched. "Wait wait wait. You can't just tell me you are going out on a story without at least giving me a hint as to what it is."

"It's a secret, that's what it is," Marlene snapped, then realized that she'd sounded harsher than she'd meant to and sighed. "I'm sorry. It's going to be big, I promise. But you know why I can't say anything about it here."

Antonio frowned slightly. "...Listen, I know how upset you were when Henderson stole your story last month. But this is a cutthroat business, not just for you."

"No," Marlene muttered, tightening her grip on her new notepad, "it's just worse for me."

Antonio sighed, shaking his head. He really wasn't a bad guy - Marlene had dated him once, when she was young and naive. The dating part had gone well, but it had wreaked havoc on her professional life, so she'd vowed to never do it again. Antonio had understood, or at least pretended so for her sake. The truth was that she'd never really gotten over him, but for whatever reason, today the idea of dating Antonio seemed completely absurd. Had she somehow changed since the last time she'd seen him?

Antonio gave her a reluctant look. "...Fine, just go. I suppose I'll have to wait until you get back... but if this story isn't as big as you say-"

"That won't be a problem," Marlene assured him, a confident smile on her face. "It's going to be huge. You can trust me on that."

Without waiting for a reply, she closed the office door and started making her way back towards the front door, trying very hard to look like she wasn't bursting with excitement. She wasn't sure if there was something more than the story or the excitement of the strike that was drawing her, but she just couldn't wait to get back to the factory.

* * *

At precisely 0300 hours, Skipper awoke to the sound of bugles. He blinked his eyes open, slowly sitting up in bed, listening carefully. No… not bugles… trumpets. In particular, a trumpet, blatting out notes in an ungodly octave. His eyes narrowed, and he clenched his fists, a low growl escaping his throat. He could vaguely hear the rest of the band as he shot out of bed, pulling on a sleeveless undershirt and a pair of pants, then shoving his bare feet into his boots. It was early enough that no one would be awake to see him, and besides, he'd done this so many times by now that the neighbors wouldn't be surprised if he stepped out into the street in his underwear.

Grumbling curses under his breath, he tore out of his apartment, racing down the stairs and exiting the building. He then whipped back around, glaring briefly up at The Madagascar Club's gaudily-painted sign as if holding it partly responsible before pushing open the door and stepping inside.

The black and tan was never quite at full capacity at this hour, but it seemed particularly empty today; this was probably due in no small part to the fact that it was Tuesday. Still, those few customers who were still there hopped and jived with a frenetic energy as the band played a wild, roaring chart that seemed to be speeding up as it went along. Skipper, who was as familiar a face here as the owner himself, went mostly unnoticed as he stormed up to the low stage, gaze locked on the tall, thin, dark-skinned man in front playing a brassy trumpet. The man's fingers jerked up and down on the valves, and the sounds that came out of the bell were so rough and grating that Skipper thought his ears would bleed. He planted his feet shoulder-length apart and placed his hands on his hips, giving the trumpeter the fiercest glare his tired eyes could muster. "Julien!" he roared, trying desperately to be heard over the clamour. "Do you have any idea what time it is?!"

The band continued to play, but the trumpet player stopped, turning to the bassist with a wide grin. "Hey, Maurice," he crowed, "it's our stinky-fish neighbor!" He turned back towards Skipper, giving a little wave. "Hello, stinky-fish neighbor! What can we be doing for you?"

Skipper seethed, his hands clenching into fists. He'd left some mackerel sitting on the table a little too long once, and this idiot would not let him forget it. "Keep your music down!" he yelled up at him, his voice cracking a little. "You're waking up the whole damn town with that racket!"

Julien simply laughed, tossing his silver bangs. "Oh, you are being joking, yes?" He spread his hands. "This is New York - the city that never sleeps!"

Skipper grumbled through clenched teeth; it was hard to argue with that. "It's three in the morning," he shouted, exasperated. "Don't you ever get tired?!"

Julien laughed again, nonchalantly kicking away a tiny brown-skinned man with a saxophone who was not unintentionally getting a little too close to his feet. "Who can be getting tired when we are swinging so hard?" He bounded to the edge of the stage and grabbed Skipper by the shoulders. "You may party with us! Even though you smell like stinky fish." He tried and failed to pull him up onto the stage. "Come, neighbor, let the music _flow_ through you!"

Skipper remained exactly where he was, brushing Julien off of him like an annoying insect. "I do not smell like fish," he stated firmly. "And I will never, _ever_ 'party' with you!" He turned on his heel, grinding his teeth. "Well, this day's off to a great start," he muttered, heading back towards the exit. He'd been so caught up in being furious with Julien that he'd forgotten all about the strike. "Maybe I'll get lucky and get shot. Again."

"Eh, be waiting a moment!" Julien turned to the bassist. "Maurice, we have not played that new blues chart yet tonight."

Maurice looked thoughtful. "You mean the one by Warfield and Williams? 'Baby Won't You Please Come Home?'"

"Yes, that is the one." Julien hefted his trumpet, sending a glance towards Skipper. "We will be taking it, say, here..." He snapped his fingers a few times at a slow tempo. "And not too loud. Soulful, you know." He snapped his fingers again, this time turning to the band and counting on the downbeats.

Skipper snorted, turning and strolling out of the club as the band began to play. Julien's trumpet soared above the rest, this time low and smooth. Skipper didn't usually actively listen to the man's music, but this sounded different from anything he'd unwillingly heard him play before. It was laid-back and glum, a mellow blues tune that seemed to be tired with the world at large. He stopped just inside the door to his building, listening to the muted sounds through the wall.

After a few moments, he sighed, leaning back against the staircase railing, letting his eyelids close. Since he was up, he might as well prepare himself for the day ahead. Savio had dropped off a letter with instructions and reports for him in his mailbox sometime last night - damned if he knew how that snake had figured out where he lived. Then again, he _was_ a Pinkerton.

Skipper had never been interested in the big-business, often political aspect of the steel industry - he was content just running his factory. True, he'd be more content out at sea, where everyone respected each other and men were fighting for freedom instead of a profit. He was secretly sappy in that way; he'd never quite let go of his old idealistic belief in truth, justice, and the American way. That was why war was so much easier than peace - this whole business complicated his ideals. He couldn't be sure if he was the good guy here.

Skipper stood still at the foot of the stairs and listened to the music until the song ended, the crooning of Julien's trumpet gradually dying away until there was only silence. He turned and trudged up the stairs, not waiting for the band to start back up again with a rowdy blast of jazz that would undoubtedly ruin the moment. He'd get dressed, reread Savio's letter, maybe do some pushups. It was far too late for him to go back on anything now, so he'd do what he'd been asked to do without any more uneasiness. Today, if only briefly, he was a soldier again.

* * *

Mason held a hand over his eyes to shield them from the sun, surveying the picket line. This wasn't a remote town like Homestead where the Pinkertons would have to cross a river to get to them - and there would be Pinkertons today, he was sure of it - and even that strike hadn't gone very well at all for the AA. This was a sticky wicket, indeed, but this was all they could do. No one was going to give them the better conditions that they needed; not the bosses in Boston, and not Skipper, either. The men weren't about to go down without a fight - Mason only hoped that they could put up a good one.

Phil tapped him on the shoulder, signing that it was already two hours to opening time. Mason nodded, glancing about at the faces of the men surrounding him. Most of them looked fired up and ready for action, but there were a few that seemed anxious. He turned to Phil. "Did anybody perchance bring a guitar?"

Phil glanced around briefly before shrugging his shoulders. Admittedly, the line was far too long and thick with men for him to have been able to tell. Massed here before the factory gates, they looked something like an army - albeit a ragtag, common one, only just organized enough to keep everybody together. Still, there was something emboldening about standing there, in the midst of that crowd of raw humanity, tensely biding its time until it would be let loose to surge forward. Mason felt proud to be a part of it. He took a few deep breaths. "Alrighty then, we'll do it _a capella."_ He cleared his throat, then began to sing, in a clear voice loud enough to be heard over the murmurings of the crowd. "In our hands is placed a power greater than their hoarded gold…"

The men around him began to turn and face him, one by one joining their voices with his. "...Greater than the might of armies magnified a thousandfold…"

Mason found himself smiling as the anthem spread down the line, until the whole group sang as one. "We can bring to birth a new world from the ashes of the old, for the union makes us strong!"

The words seemed to become an outpouring of their spirit, a power in and of themselves. All those present knew in their hearts that there was not a soul in the entire city who had not heard them.

"Solidarity forever, solidarity forever. Solidarity forever, for the union makes us strong!"

* * *

 **Author's Note: *Ding* Roll credits!**

 **Just kidding, it's not over yet. I thought for sure I was gonna actually get to the strike in this chapter, but I didn't end up going in that direction at all. It kinda ended up being rather mopey and introspective. (Also, sorry this took so long… I've been busy with summer school. My professor made me read the entirety of Baillie's** _ **De Monfort**_ **in one night.)**

 **For those of you historically-minded, this strike is not very realistic, since it all happens WAY too quickly. It's for this story's purposes, though, so please don't yell at me. I know, I'm one of those people who's always at risk of taking too much artistic license.**

 **Oh, and if you're wondering about the song, it's the last verse of "Solidarity Forever." It was written in 1915 as a union anthem, and it goes to the tune of "Battle Hymn of the Republic" (Glory, glory hallelujah). There are some pretty good versions of it on YouTube, if you're interested.**


End file.
